Sketch
by Koshka-Rayn
Summary: Sokka was a prince- then again, Zuko was a prince once upon a time, too. Now, he is his prince. (Set after WWIII; WARNING: contains mentions of torture, self-harm, and yaoi)


_There is something oddly satisfactory about being a painter's model_, Sokka mused to himself, laying prostrate over a table while clad in little more than a pair of midnight blue briefs and a light blue linen sheet. Blue had always been his best color.  
A few feet away, in a decidedly more comfortable position, the artist sat, his graphite pencil hesitating over marked canvas, drinking in what Sokka had to offer. In a purely artistic sense, of course -the one and only court painter had no need of a lover. Especially not the eldest son of the king. Getting on the bad side of powerful people only ever ended in disaster -the scar he bore on the left side of his face attested to that.  
"So, Ling, you gonna get back to drawing any time soon, or what?" Sokka asked boredly, lifting his head to rest his chin on the palm of his hand. He was getting this painting for his fiancé, Suki, for when he was away.  
"...Aye," he said slowly, turning back to his beloved canvas. He added a few more lines here and there -further defining the sculpted form of his young lord- before nodding in approval and setting his implement down. He liked to think of his art as something akin to the Mona Lisa -a famous work of art from the First World. It still survived in the Louvre in Paris -one of the few places left untouched by the war of Twenty-Thirty-Two. No one had wanted to destroy art -except for those damnably idiotic Americans.  
Of which 'Ling' -really known as Zuko- was one. He had adopted a faint accent -something akin to British and something resembling the west-coast state slang he had come from- in order to not arouse hatred.  
At least, no more than was already given to him.  
"...You seem distracted," Sokka mused, swinging his feet into the air boredly. "Something bothering you?"  
"It is nothing of your concern," Zuko smiled faintly, standing. "That will be all I need you for, my lord. The painting will be done in just a few more days."  
"Trying to get rid of me already?" Sokka cocked an eyebrow and sat up, the thin satin sheet pooling around his waist.  
"I would never be so callous," Zuko said smoothly, tidying his materials. He was already thinking of what colors he would use; how to mix the exact right shade of Sokka's eyes. Were they more blue? or purple? "I was merely stating facts, my lord. Forgive me if I offended you."  
It had taken many years, but Zuko had finally calmed his temper. (Doing what he loved to do every day certainly helped.) The old him would have been snapping at the prince, never mind who he was, while the new him couldn't bring himself to care.  
"Oh, nah," Sokka waved an absent hand, reaching for his pants and sliding them on. "No biggie, man. A few days, you say?"  
"Yes," Zuko nodded slightly, moving to his paint splattered table -though it was really more of a board stretched from one end of the room to the other- to sort through his different shades of tan. He had one labelled 'SOKKA' around here somewhere, from a few months ago when he had made that family portrait. He set aside 'COBALT' and 'AQUAMARINE' -two possible colors to combine for Sokka's eyes- before a small frown crossed his lips. He gazed, dead-eyed, at the prince off to his left. "Can I help you?"  
"Why do you have a jar with my name on it?"  
"Oh, you found it," Zuko smiled blandly, taking the jar and giving it a slow swirl. "It's your skin shade; probably a little too light now, though, as it is summer, and I did make this during winter."  
"But why?" Sokka leaned towards him, arms crossed over his still bare chest.  
"Its from that family portrait I was commissioned for, a few months back, do you remember that?" Zuko asked, turning away. "I have a jar for all of you." He held up a jar labelled 'KATARA' as evidence. "So don't be too arrogant. Sir," a mere afterthought.  
"I'm good at the whole arrogance thing," Sokka smirked at him, picking up a jar filled with reddish-brown paint and glancing at the label. "Drying blood, eh?"  
Zuko shrugged and slid over another bottle. "Fresh blood, this one. Pretty color, I suppose. For a red."  
"You...don't like red?" Sokka raised an eyebrow, glancing him up and down. Nearly everything the artist wore had some shade of red on it.  
"...It's...not my favorite color," Zuko admitted softly, peering through the bottom of a small glass jar. "I have others I like better."  
"Oh? Well, then, what is your favorite color?" Sokka leaned against the table.  
"Why do you want to know?" Zuko cocked an eyebrow at him curiously.  
"I'm a curious guy," Sokka admitted, a smile on his lips. "So, tell me. I wanna know."  
Zuko rolled his eyes. "My favorite color, you ask? I'd have to say...green. Or maybe blue."  
"...I never would have taken you to be a blue type of person," Sokka mused, stroking his fingers along an invisible beard.  
Zuko cast a glance at him, and a small smirk found its way onto his features. "There are many things you don't know about me, sir. Just like there are many things I don't know about you."  
"Would you tell me?" Sokka asked curiously, leaning towards the former American.  
"No," Zuko said simply, turning away.  
"Why not?" Sokka pouted, following after the artist like a puppy looking for a treat.  
"Because you have no need to know," Zuko said simply, selecting a few paintbrushes from a series of mason jars. "My past and my life; these are my secrets meant for me alone."  
"You told my father, didn't you?" Sokka asked, catches a hold of Zuko's shoulder to keep him still.  
"Different story," Zuko said, easily sliding out of Sokka's grasp. "I had to tell him some things so I could get my job. He didn't ask me too much, only what he needed to know."  
Sokka's frown didn't lessen. "I wanna know more about you, Ling."  
"Why?" was Zuko's simplistic reply.  
"Because...I think you're a cool guy?" Sokka suggested idly, crossing his arms once more. "You've got this whole 'mysterious' aura about you, guy. All the ladies of the castle love you. And yet, I've never seen you even approach one of them. Like, at all."  
"I'm not interested in girls," Zuko said flatly.  
"So...you like older women?" Sokka mused. "I'm alright with that. I guess."  
"No, I don't like older women, either," Zuko rolled his eyes. "I don't like 'women' period. I used to -thought I had found 'the one' even."  
Sokka blinked at him, blue eyes wide. "Used to? What's that supposed to mean?"  
"It's called betrayal," Zuko said flatly. "Its what happens when you're just not good enough anymore."  
"...Oh..." Sokka looked down at his feet awkwardly. "We-well then, I should... I should get going, I think. Yeah...?""Yes," Zuko nodded sharply, not looking at him. If he did, he feared the tears might start to fall. It had been just over a year since everything had gone wrong, and just one year could never be long enough to heal the scars he bore. Inside, or out.  
~/\~

"Hello!" Sokka grinned brilliantly at the artist at his work table. "How are you? The painting done yet?"  
"No," Zuko said flatly, glancing at the prince with dull eyes. "It's been one day. I said this would take a minimum of three. I've half a mind to make it take a month, just to spite you."  
"Naw, don't do that," Sokka complained. "I'll be gone in a month, remember? I wanna give Suki the painting myself."  
"As long as you dont try and convince her you made it," Zuko rolled his eyes mockingly.  
"Would I ever do that?" Sokka asked incredulously, one palm flat on his chest.  
Zuko raised an eyebrow at him.  
"Oi, hey, it was once," Sokka protested with a pout. "I've learned my lesson, I swear."  
"Have you now," Zuko said disbelievingly, turning to look at the younger brunette.  
"Yes!" Sokka exclaimed, clasping his hands together. "I have, I have."  
"Good for you," Zuko said, going back to the much more interesting painting of Sokka.  
"You're really good at this, you know," Sokka remarked, peering over Zuko's shoulder at himself. His skin had already been drawn in, a few lines of shade added; Zuko was working on the blue sheet now.  
"I have to be," Zuko hummed softly, stroking a gentle line of baby blue on the sheet. "It's my job. Remember, your highness?"  
"Ah, how could I forget," Sokka said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Yeesh. I remember you being such an emotional kid when you first got here. A little firecracker. What ever happened to him?"  
"He grew up," Zuko pointed a threatening paintbrush at Sokka, jabbing at his nose. "He learned that in order to keep the job that he really liked, he had to behave as though he liked his job. This isn't the 2000's anymore; unwanted brats like me have to ship up or ship out."  
Basically all Sokka had registered from that was, 'unwanted brats like me.'  
"What do you mean unwanted?" Sokka asked, hopping up onto a random stool nearby. "All the European states have great welfare programs for orphans and widows and such."  
Zuko glanced at him over his shoulder, allowing the adopted accent to slip away from his tongue for the first time in nearly a year. "Ah, you see...I never said I was from Europe. Nor Asia, Canada, or Russia."  
"You mean..." Sokka stared at him, blue eyes wide. "You're...American?!"  
"Aye," Zuko nodded, turning back to the painting. He was well aware of the stigma against members of the United States of America (former or not, exiled or not) and was fully prepared to take the backlash from it.  
He deserved it, a little bit, he supposed. Being a prince and all of that once great nation, and especially how he was currently living in the United Kingdom (of Great Britain and Ireland), one of the worst-struck kingdoms of the American 'wrath' in the world. "That I am."  
"...Why the hell are you here?" Sokka asked, crossing his arms. He -personally- didn't have anything against Americans -his father didn't, and he learned a lot from his father. He had heard many a rumor about those dastardly American pigs and their trigger-happy people, but didn't care to take the time to listen to them. "Wouldn't you, like, fit in a lot better in America? With other Americans?"  
"I'm not allowed," Zuko said lightly, waving his paintbrush in Sokka's general direction again. "I've been banned. Exiled. Excommunicated, if you will. If I so much as step foot on American soil ever again, I'm to be shot until dead on sight."  
"What, were you the one who killed that Prince Zuko fellow?" Sokka asked doubtfully, rolling his eyes.  
Zuko's chuckle was dry and mirthless. "Killed him...? No, I wish it were that simple. You see, I am him."  
~/\~

Sokka scowled out the library window, tapping his pen against the table irritably.  
"Look, Sokka, would you stop already?" Katara asked in annoyance, staring at him. "I've asked you three times already!"  
"Eh?" Sokka turned to her, blinking. "Did you say something, Katara?"  
"Stop tapping your pen," she snapped, turning back to her book. "Its annoying."  
"...Sure," he shrugged, setting the thing down and shoving his chair away from the antique table. He stood, "I'll be right back."  
"Where are you going?" she asked, looking up from her book.  
"Need to do some research," Sokka said simply, heading to the lineage section of their vast library. He pulled out the book of recent American royal families, flipping to the page bearing the most current. Skimming down the page, he tapped against Zuko's name.  
The prince was listed as deceased, along with his mother and an uncle. He had a surviving younger sister named Azula, and his father was still alive, though.  
Sokka sat back, humming thoughtfully. After a long moment, he stood and slid the book back into place. He wanted to go talk to Ling- erm, Zuko.

The former prince was sweating miserably in his ground-level rooms, even with all the windows open and several fans going. He himself had an oriental-styled fan in hand as he mixed paint, sweat dripping down his form.  
After a moment, he stripped his shirt off.  
In the process, he heard someone knock on the door. "Yeah? Who is it?"  
"Sokka," came the reply.  
"Oh?" Zuko cocked an eyebrow, shirt over his head but still over his arms. "Come on in."  
"Hey-" Sokka began brightly, cutting off as soon as he spied Zuko's bare torso. "Well...well there. If I'da known we were going to be stripping I would have come more prepared."  
Zuko rolled his eyes scornfully, tossing the shirt over the back of a chair. "Your painting isn't done yet. Sir."  
"I figured," Sokka hopped up onto a stool, swinging his legs. He tried to avoid looking at the paint-smeared artist, unused to the fluttery, bubbly feeling in the pit of his stomach. (When the hell had Ling- uh, Zuko gotten so...breathtakingly gorgeous?) "It hasn't been long enough, I know."  
"Good," Zuko said with a nod, tossing a hand fan at the sweating prince. "Here, this might help you cool down."  
Sokka turned it over in his hands for a long moment, before flipping it open and asking, "Did you make this?"  
"Yes," Zuko said simply, adding a pinch of blue pigment to the blackish oil base. "My Uncle taught me how when I was small."  
"Your uncle Iro?" Sokka asked, fanning himself idly.  
Zuko paused, but nodded cautiously, giving his mixture a quick stir. He tossed in a dash of purple. The paint was thick, but not to thick, with no lumps.  
"Whatcha mixing up?" Sokka asked, leaning closer.  
"Midnight Shadow," Zuko said, tipping the tin bowl towards the prince. "I've needed some for a while now."  
"So, you know, like, the mixture of every shade of paint you make?" Sokka asked, fanning himself.  
"Of course," Zuko scoffed, rolling his eyes mockingly. "How could I not?"  
"How close do you get?" Sokka asked.  
In answer, Zuko picked up the jar of paint labeled 'SOKKA SOFT,' and screwed it open. Dipping his finger in, he drew it up the inside of the prince's wrist.  
The paint blended in almost perfectly. It would dry to be just a little lighter than the real stuff.  
"Wow," Sokka stared incredulously. "That takes some serious talent."  
"Thanks," Zuko said with a shrug, screwing the jar back shut. He wiped his fingers clean on his white cotton pants as well as he cared, before reaching for a clean, empty jar to fill with shadow.  
Somehow, to Sokka's eyes, the paint seemed to shimmer with gold and silver as it was poured into the jar.  
Not all of it made it into the container, though; some dripped down Zuko's hand and onto the table.  
Screwing the cap on, Zuko picked up a Sharpie to scribble the name on the strip of tape attached to the side.  
"How many colors do you have?" Sokka asked, staring at the lengthy table covered in jars, both large and small, and splattered with paint.  
"You really expect me to know them all?" Zuko snorted mockingly, rolling his eyes. Picking up a jar of plain black and wandering back over the his painting of Sokka, he pulled a slim -tiny, really- paintbrush off of a random nearby table. "I may be intelligent, but I'm not that much of a genius."  
"Coulda fooled me," Sokka rolled his eyes, meandering to stand by Zuko and stare at the near photograph of himself. It was pretty much done; most of what remained to be done was shading. "I forget how good of a painter you are."  
"Shame on you," Zuko shook his head mockingly, tracing the tiny line of a wrinkle on the cotton sheet. "How could you forget my artistic touch?"  
Sokka's lips curled into a slow smirk, leaning closer to the taller male. "Well, I was thinking about your...other types of touch."  
Zuko paused, hand in mid-air. "Are you...coming on to me?"  
"Mm, no, what would give you that idea?" Sokka smirked, breath ghosting over Zuko's bare shoulder.  
"Kindly, back the fuck up, please," Zuko said, nudging Sokka's stomach with his elbow. "You're too close."  
After a moment of hesitation, Sokka nodded and stepped back. He vanished out the door without so much as a glance back.  
Zuko released a frustrated breath, rolling his eyes up towards the sky in utter exasperation. "Fucking bastard..." What the hell was happening to him?

"Is it done now?" Sokka asked eagerly, throwing open the former prince's chamber doors. "Lemme see lemme see!"  
Rolling his eyes, Zuko contemplated pulling himself off the chair near the window where he had been idly fanning himself -and nearly ready to doze off- but just nodded, gesturing to the painting on its easel. He didn't dare speak.  
"Wow!" Sokka exclaimed, running up to it eagerly. "This looks great, Zuko! God, you've got to teach me how to paint like this someday soon!"  
"Pwactith firtht," Zuko lisped, holding his fan in front of his mouth protectively. His tongue hurt, and people were bastards.  
Sokka turned to stare at him, one eyebrow raising sky high. "Hey, man, you okay? You sound funny."  
Zuko shrugged, tapping his opened fan to his lips as he stared out the window.  
"Really, you can tell me," Sokka said, stepping a little closer. "What's wrong?"  
"Nothin," Zuko responded harshly, snapping his fan shut, but not turning away from the window. "None of your buthiness."  
"You're really not talking right," Sokka scowled, forcing Zuko to face him. His gaze swept critically over the other's face, but found nothing immediately wrong. (He should have known better.)  
"Wath it thoo you?" Zuko said tonelessly, arms crossed.  
Sokka caught a hold of Zuko's bottom jaw and top jaw, prying them apart to get a better look at the inside of his mouth.  
There were distinctive gaps where some molars should have been, on both the top and bottom rows, and a ball bearing rested on Zuko's tongue.  
"...The hell?" Sokka poked the metal ball -which was attatched to a post that ran through Zuko's tongue. "Dude, Zuke, why the hell did you get your tongue pierced? And what happened to all your teeth?"  
Zuko nearly bit his fingers off as he pushed him away. "What the heww maketh you think I got my thongue pierthed on purpothe?"  
"Well, I don't think you would do it on accident," Sokka told him, wiping spit off on his pants before crossing his arms.  
Zuko's scowl darkened. "I had no choithe in the mather."  
"...What?" Sokka stared at him. "Why not?"  
"Not everyone likth Amewicanth," Zuko said grimly, running a hand through his dark brown hair. "Thum dithlike uth more than others do. I...I wath unlucky enough to meet a gwoup of people who weawwy hate my type. Gave me...a heww of a time."  
"Oh..." Sokka looked down at the painters bare feet, noticing what looked like thin scars that wrapped around them. "I...that sucks. If you're so hated, why didn't you go to a place that used to be allied with America? Like... France, or Russia?"  
"My mother wath Englith," Zuko shrugged. "My owiginaw goaw wath to thee if I couwd find hew. Thee dithappeared when I wath about theven ow tho." Good GOD did his tongue hurt. Was that blood he tasted?  
"...Oh..." Sokka looked down guiltily. "That...erm. I take it you never found her?"  
Zuko shrugged. "That dependth on your definition of 'found.' If by found you mean, I know whewe thee ith, then yeth, I found her. But if you mean that I've met hew here, then no. I haven't found her. I found her gwave."  
"...Oh..." Sokka looked away, hands clasped behind your back. "That sucks. My mom's dead too."  
"I know," Zuko nodded at him. "I wath there."  
"You were?" Sokka's gaze snapped up incredulously. "But how? I don't-?"  
"Thith wath back before the waw," Zuko said. "When the Amerwican thythtem wathn't tho cowwupted. Aye?"  
"Yeah...I remember now," Sokka nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Yeah. You were that sullen kid who hid under the umbrella the whole time."  
Zuko rolled his eyes, rubbing his thumb over the bottom of the burn scar around his eye. "Yeah, that wath me. Never over the angtht-faze, according to Mei."  
"Mei?" Sokka cocked his head to the side. That was a girl's name. (He tried to crumble the little green monster that rumbled irritably in his stomach; it didn't work very well.) "Who's that?"  
"My fianthe," Zuko shrugged uncaringly. "We were thuppothed to get mawwied on my thixteenth biwthday."  
"How old are you now?" Sokka raised an eyebrow, leaning against the wall.  
"Eighteen," Zuko said easily, rubbing the ball of his new piercing on the roof of his mouth. Yup, he definitely was tasting blood now. "We nevew got mawwied becuthe I wath exthiled."  
"Ouch," Sokka pursed his lips thoughtfully. "That's harsh...why were you exiled?"  
"I didn't agree with my fathew," Zuko shrugged, licking his lips. The blood in his mouth left a light red sheen on his plush lips.  
Sokka repressed the urge to lick his own lips, shoving his curious thought of, 'I wonder what he would taste like...?' to the farthest reaches of his mind. "That's really harsh. That's all you did?"  
Zuko shrugged, poking his tongue through the wholes where some of his molars used to be. "Clothe enough...thir."  
Sokka pouted, gaze slipping to the floor.  
"You'd betht take your painting and get going," Zuko said, gesturing to the work of art on the stand.  
"Yeah..." Sokka stood, meandering over to the painting. "I dunno. It seems kind of vain, now that I think about it."  
Zuko nodded in agreement, a small smirk playing on his lips. "I couwd have towd you that ageth ago."  
Sokka wrinkled his nose at the artist. "Shuddup. You should have told me that sooner."  
Zuko shrugged uncaringly, standing and moving to his sink. His mouth was dry. "Wath are you going thoo get hew now?"  
"Iunno," Sokka frowned at the painting. "What do you think?"  
Zuko shrugged, taking a long drink. "Wath doth thee like?"  
"...Well, she's a Kyoshi Warrior," Sokka mused.  
Zuko arched an eyebrow. "Your giwfwiend ith one of the king'th pewthonal guardth?"  
"Uh-huh," Sokka nodded.  
Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Zuko refilled his glass. "Heww if I know. The's not my giwfwiend. Thankfuwwy."

Zuko was hot.  
Too hot.  
"Fucking weather," he moaned, hanging halfway out the window. "Gah! It's too hot!"  
"Oi, Zu- erm, Ling," Sokka knocked loudly on the artist's quarter's door. "You home?"  
"Gah...c'mon in..." Zuko groaned, deigning to pull himself halfway back inside. "What the hell do you want?"  
"Well rawr," Sokka laughed. "I just wanted to know if you wanted to go down to the river with Jet and I."  
"Can't swim," Zuko said simply.  
"...What?" Sokka cocked his head to the side curiously. "What do you mean?"  
"I mean," Zuko flopped onto the floor, staring at the prince flatly. "That I don't know how to swim."  
"...Oh." Sokka stared at him. "We-well...how about I teach you?"  
"No."  
"Aw, but Zuko," Sokka whined, crouching beside the American's head. "Why not?"  
"I don't like water," Zuko shuddered, shuffling into a sitting position. "One could almost say that I'm afraid of water."  
"Egh, why?" Sokka asked incredulously, cocking his head to the side. "That's ridiculous. We're on an island!"  
Zuko twitched. "Don't remind me, please..."  
Sokka pushed out his lower lip. "Aw, c'mon Zuko! Please? You'll be fine, I promise!"  
"I'll...I'll go down with you, but I'm not getting in the water," Zuko said fiercely, crossing his arms. "I'd rather die."  
"Okay, okay," Sokka nodded, just glad to have his new friend agree to go. "This'll be sick, man!"  
"...Why do I get the feeling I'm heading to my imminent doom...?"

Zuko sat on the narrow ledge of rock, dangling his feet into the cool, languidly moving water.  
He watched Sokka and Jet race each other back and forth across the river -Sokka almost always winning- with only a slight twinge of envy. His gaze slipped down to the nearly clear water, a small sigh leaving his lips.  
He flinched when an old memory floated through his head -floating. He was cold, but numb. Black ringed the edges of his vision; he could see little bubbles floating up to touch the wavy, blurry sky.  
Shaking himself, he picked up his sketchpad and graphite pencil, determined to immortalize the day in lead.

"Hey there," Sokka said, pulling himself halfway out of the water to rest on the stone ledge. "You okay, all alone by yourself?"  
"Not only is that redundant, but isn't that obvious?" Zuko snorted, flicking Sokka's forehead. "Of course I'm fine."  
Sokka pouted, shaking out his long, dark hair. "You sure? You're looking a little lonely over here."  
"Then you need to get your eyes checked," Zuko snorted, shoving Sokka back. "Because obviously you're going blind."  
"You're so cruel to me," Sokka whined, sinking down in the water.  
"Someone has to be," Zuko shrugged, looking away innocently. "Who else would dare be so cruel to the great prince Sokka?"  
"Jet can be cruel," Sokka pointed to the dozing Spaniard under a tree on the shore.  
"Sì," Jet mumbled, lifting a hand in an absent wave. "Got that right."  
Zuko smirked.  
Sokka pouted.  
"I also enjoy it," Zuko said, shuffling back away from the water. He didn't trust the English prince for anything. "Why should I stop doing something I enjoy? Foolish, if you ask me."  
"Hey, where are you going now?" Sokka exclaimed, pulling himself out of the water and trailing after the exiled American. "Don't tell me you're running away now, are you?"  
"Of course not," Zuko snorted mockingly, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "I have better things to do today than watch you imitate a fish."  
"I make a damn good fish," Sokka said proudly, puffing out his chest.  
"Tiny fish," Jet piped up, holding his fingers mere centimeters apart. "Infentisimal, really."  
"Hey!" Sokka exclaimed, spinning on the other male. "You shut your trap, damnable Spaniard!"  
"Lo siento, no hablo ingles," Jet's smirk was apparent under the shadow of his thick hair.  
"God damn it, liar!" Sokka yelled, shaking his fist. "Zu-Ling, can you believe this ass-?"  
But the American was already gone.  
"...Zu-Ling?" Jet lifted his chin, eyes sharp. "Dangerous slip-up there, Sokka. You'd better be careful if you want your precious prince to stay safe."  
Sokka gaped at him. "How the- how the hell did you know?"  
Jet shrugged, resting his chin on his chest once more. "I make it my business to know everything, Sokka. I thought you knew that already -not a thing goes on in the whole of the world that I will not know about soon enough."

"So, did you know that Jet knows who you are?" Sokka asked idly, leaning against the counter bearing all of Zuko's paints.  
"Yes," he nodded, running a hand through his hair absently. He tapped the ball bearing in his mouth against his teeth thoughtfully. "He told me as soon as he met me. He also said he hated me, but," he shrugged uncaringly, "we've obviously gotten past that, now, haven't we."  
"...Am I the last one to know everything?" Sokka exclaimed, waving his hands wildly. "I'll bet even Katara knows who you are!"  
"Um, no, you're overreacting. Calm down," Zuko almost laughed, leaning against the wall. Out of direct view of the window, if anyone had been trying to look in. "Only a few people know who I really am. Most just assume I'm some dumb American living in England," he shrugged idly, touching his fingertips to his lips.  
"Which you kinda are, actually," Sokka pointed out, leaning back against the counter that bore Zuko's paints. "You know, a dumb American. Just for living in England. It's indescribably foolish."  
Zuko shrugged. "Where better to hide from your enemies than in their enemy's home?"  
"...That's a very disturbing sort of logic, Zuko," Sokka told him, wrinkling his nose. "Is that like the saying, 'keep your friends close, but your enemies closer,' or something?"  
"Or something," Zuko shrugged. He would neither admit or deny anything. It was against his policies.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," Sokka said slowly, leaning on the windowsill beside the artist.  
"I know," Zuko shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. Uncaring. "Means I don't have to babysit you anymore, your Princelyness."  
"I feel like you're being sarcastic," Sokka mused, glancing over at the teen.  
"I'm so glad you could tell," Zuko snorted, rolling his eyes.  
"...You...you're an asshole!" Sokka stared at the smirking ex-prince with wide eyes.  
"Are you just now figuring this out?" Zuko asked with mock incredulity, turning to the brunette. He rested one palm on the windowsill, leaning heavily against it.  
"No, this is an old discovery," Sokka shook his head. "I just felt like having an American moment and stating the obvious."  
"How very politically correct," Zuko snorted, rolling his eyes.  
"I know, right?" Sokka smirked, laughing. But then he sighed, sinking to his knees and dangling his arms out the window. "I don't wanna leave."  
"Why do you have to?" Zuko asked, pulling a stool closer with his foot and sitting down. "No, wait, school, right?"  
"Yeeeessss," Sokka whined, sliding to the ground and laying on his back. "Norway. NORWAY. I'm going to school in fucking Norway."  
"Better Norway than Iceland," Zuko told him, tapping the prince's side with his foot. "Then again, you're male. You wouldn't be able to go to school at all in Iceland."  
"I know," Sokka deadpanned, staring at him with flat eyes. "Norway's got the best schools in Europe -Norway and Switzerland. But Switzerland went into isolationism, so..." he shrugged awkwardly. "Norway it was. Katara's going to Russia next year." Russia had some of the best schools in Europe for girls.  
"Doesn't her boyfriend Aang live in Russia?" Zuko asked absently, leaning on his elbows, resting on his knees.  
"Aye," Sokka nodded, pursing his lips. "Meh..."  
"How're you and Suki doing?" Zuko asked, cocking his head to the side.  
"She broke up with me," Sokka pouted. "For another bodyguard. Toph."  
"Sounds...strong," Zuko pursed his lips. "I'm sorry, I guess."  
"Meh," Sokka sighed. "And she is- probably one of the most powerful guards on the force. She's also blind."  
"...Suckish," Zuko suppressed a smirk. "Sorry to hear that. But I've always heard long-distance relationships never work out."  
Sokka glared at him. "What would you know? Your fiancé betrayed you and you got exiled."  
"...Harsh," Zuko said coldly, face totally emotionless. "That...was very cruel, your highness." He stood, turning away.  
Sokka flinched, scrambling after him. "No, hey, wait, please, I'm sorry, Zuko!" he called, almoat desperately. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that!"  
Zuko firmly closed the door to his bedroom, sliding the latch into place, and sighing heavily, sinking down. With his back pressed to the solid wooden door, he could feel every one of Sokka's taps against it.  
"I know what I said was cruel, I'm sorry," the brunette prince said sadly. "I didn't...didn't mean it. I was just angry-"  
"Kindly go away," Zuko said softly, resting his head against the door. "Please...go away."  
"But..."  
"Please. Just...please."  
"I...alright, I'm sorry," Sokka said slowly, rising to his feet. "I'll...I hope to see you soon, Zuko."  
The former American prince said nothing, bowing his head to rest it on his knees. His hands linked behind his head, and he worked desperately to keep his breathing steady and even.

"Sokka, it's great to see you again," Katara laughed, embracing her older brother tightly. "It's been too long!"  
Sokka laughed, "you're talking like an old woman, Kat! It's only been three years!"  
"Gosh, three years too long!" she smirked.  
"You've gotten big, Sokka," his father said with a smile, ruffling his short hair. "Three years has done you a lot of good."  
"Thanks, Dad," Sokka smirked, puffing out his chest proudly.

His gaze caught on a scarred young male standing in the corner of the room, arms crossed as he gazed longingly out the window, and he sauntered over. "Zuko?"  
The male jumped, whipping around to face the prince. His hands clenched automatically in the fabric of his shirt, knuckles turning white under the strain.  
"Whoa, dude," Sokka held out his hands, like he would to a spooked horse. "Calm down. I'm not gonna bite you or anything."  
The former prince licked his dry lips, gaze darting around. "Hello, Prince Sokka. It's good to see you back..."  
Sokka's eyebrows knit together in concern. "Hey now, what's with all the formality? I thought you and I were friends. I mean, I know we didn't exactly end on the best of notes, but..."  
"I...I..." Zuko's gaze stayed firmly on the floor, his arms crossed tightly around himself. "Forgive me, my prince, but I must go." He slipped by the youth and walked swiftly off along the edge of the welcome back party, head bowed firmly.  
Frowning deeply, Sokka went in quest of his ever-knowledgeable friend Jet.

"Zuko?" Jet arched an eyebrow at him. "He's been getting beat pretty badly. A lot more, now, than it used to be."  
"Used to be?" Sokka scowled darkly. "How long ago does that mean?"  
"Well," Jet tossed his head back and forth. "He's been getting kicked around pretty much since he came to England. Its been really bad since you left. The poor guy's probably got more scars than a cutter's wrists. Actually," he gave Sokka a pitying look. "I've heard some rumors that our former highness himself actually is a cutter, he's gotten so bad."  
"...WHAT?!" Sokka exclaimed incredulously, gripping Jet's shoulders tightly. "Since when? Why? Tell me!"  
"I dunno the whole story, so I would go ask him yourself-"  
But the prince was already gone, storming off down the empty hallway. He threw open the artist's chamber doors easily.  
The former prince himself yelped, jerking back inside. "S-s-sir!" he stuttered brokenly, eyes wide with fright. "You-you, um, wh-why are you in here...?" He pressed himself as flat to the wall as was humanly possible, face turned to the side as if to defend from a blow.  
"Oh, Zuko," Sokka sighed, closing the door with a click and leaning against it. "My poor Zuko..."  
"S-sir?" Zuko chewed his lower lip anxiously, peering at Sokka through hooded eyes. "Wh-what is it?"  
Sokka started forward.  
He hadn't gone more than half a dozen steps before he noticed that Zuko had gone back to defense, chin tucked to his chest and arms wrapped protectively around himself.  
"Zuko, I promise than I'm not going to hurt you," Sokka said slowly, carefully, holding out both hands palm up. "Please believe me, I could never hurt you."  
Zuko snorted, sliding down the wall, his head cradled against his knees. "They all say that...but none ever mean it."  
"I do," Sokka said fiercely, crouching beside him. "I will never hurt you, Zuko. I could never hurt you. You're too precious to me."  
"Pr...?" Zuko looked up carefully, biting his lip still. "Precious? How could someone so filthy as me be precious?"  
"Oh, how could someone so precious as you think they were filthy?" Sokka sighed, stroking his fingers through silken black hair. "You're like a gem, Zuko. Some places are still a little rough, sure, but put it in the right setting...and that gem is indescribably beautiful." He couldn't help but notice the roughly shorn, choppy lengths of hair, like someone had forcibly tried to give him a haircut with a dull knife.  
Sokka sighed, reaching out to pull Zuko closer. "Zuko, my precious prince, my precious gem... I'm never goimg to let anyone hurt you again..."  
~/\~ FIVE YEARS LATER ~/\~  
"Oi! Zuko, look!" Sokka exclaimed excitedly, tugging on his partner's shoulder and pointing out the window. "Here they come!"  
"I see that," Zuko arched an eyebrow at him, reaching out to straighten the collar of Sokka's dress shirt. "I'm not totally blind, Sokka, as opposed to what some may think."  
"Hng," Sokka wrinkled his nose at him, leaning out the window to wave excitedly to his sister and her wedding procession as they passed by under the window. "Hey, Katara! Good luck, Sis!"  
"The likelihood that she can actually hear you is slim to none," Zuko told him, leaning against the wall next to the window. "You know that, right?"  
"Shuddup," Sokka wrinkled his nose distastefully at Zuko. "I will make you sleep in the spare bedroom, oh princely one."  
Zuko frowned. "Alright, I'll stop spoiling your fun."  
"Great," Sokka winked at him, leaning farther out to wave.  
Zuko licked his lips, eyes never leaving Sokka's delectable derrier. It was going to be a fun night, he could tell already.

**God, ugh, another fanfiction...! But only for a little while! Til I can move it somewhere it'll get more luvs.**


End file.
